


only fools rush in

by ephedilia



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 03:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephedilia/pseuds/ephedilia
Summary: Alfonse tears down the walls between them, and Kiran tries to pretend loneliness is a lie.It’s easier said than done.





	1. daymare

Askr is mythical, blooming with everything you’ve seen before in fantasy stories.

It still stops your breath—the sudden feeling of high, of momentum, of being aware this is temporary. Anna reassures you they’ll find a way to open a portal as soon as the war is over. Out of courtesy, you don’t ask her to rush, but inwardly, your reason is letting this dream last longer.

You’re not meant to stay.

Fantasies begin as hidden desires and they either end up grim and almost tragic or light-hearted, and it’s still too early to decipher how this will turn out. Being delusional is the most probable reason of wishing to escape reality and embrace this fleeting daydream.

 

* * *

 

Escapism helps the morale, no matter how brief it is.

Roaming around the castle, checking things out, and walking are part of the every day life. The excitement for the battlefield is nonexistent. You constantly ponder that if you fall under a miscalculation, you’d die in your world or not. A valid question for someone without any ties. Unlike Sharena—she walks into a room with enemies and comes out alive and being looked at with wry amusement from the less than suitable recruits. Instead, you take your time; you put patience into bonding, but revealing anything of yourself is another matter.

The status as Summoner is worthy of a headache.

It’s kind of hypocritical to ask for trust when you’re avoiding giving yours.

 

* * *

 

Alfonse walks in middle of your session, but you paid no ill-feelings.

You’re familiar with how he announces himself. His steps are unrushed, if a bit apprehensive. It’s only from weeks of shared routine that you catch up his wall. It mirrors your distrust well enough—like a game without need for other players.

“Sharena told me you had left for the library.”

“Guilty as charged,” you admit.

Your eyes remain on the board, before you move a piece against another of opposite color. After placing the fallen pieces aside, you raise your head upwards. To your amusement, Alfonse appears baffled, or as far as the prince shows emotion.

“What are you doing, Kiran?”

You shrug. “Playing against myself.”

Whether it’s engaging or not for Alfonse, you got no clue. You still find his eyes scrutinizing you, probably trying to understand what goes through your brain. From your position, you find him vaguely adorable. His blue hair sticks up, the golden pins shining under the light. It’s the closest to admit he’s pretty.

“May I ask why you would do that?”

Nailed it. “They say the worst adversary is yourself.” Another shrug. “I’m putting that theory into practice.”

It feels right. Somehow.

Losing against others is miscalculation, but your own methods are a rough, calculated assault. Tapping your chin, your glove hovers. Mistakes appear. As you finish your self-match, you count how many pieces you used to achieve it. Guilt settles on your stomach; you knew it would require sacrifices. Practice ends up in perfection, they say. You doubt it applies when it’s a matter of life and death.

Alfonse interrupts. “Allow me.”

He’s close enough to brush against your shoulder. You turn around slightly, aware of the space between you and him. You say nothing as he puts the pieces away. A beat of silence; you can barely handle the curiosity.

“What do you think?”

“We're in capable hands.” His compliment _almost_ throws you off. Almost. “But I must admit I didn't understand your hesitation.”

“A victory is a victory.”

Your eyes linger on the board. Speaking of the heaviness inside of you is out of question. You remember the battlefields—when the bodies fall, what happens after a loss, what happens after a win. That’s why, your remark is soft-spoken.

“If the sacrifices are low, that too is a victory.”

Alfonse acknowledges you with stoic eyes, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours, and you await for anything but nothing never comes.

It’s a simple thought. After he walks away, you wonder if his smile used to reach others.

 

* * *

 

Heroes are of flesh and blood.

It’s always in the back of your mind, easy to forget after witnessing the might, the brawl, the brain. But in the purest core, they’re still similar to you. When family meets again, lovers get reunited, friends greet each other, you feel cynical for being too used to your pessimism. Welcoming new recruits never gets old; what worries you is the barracks getting smaller.

There’s no end in sight to the war.

Growing up in your world has taught you the illusion of peace is from self-interest. If Embla has remained neutral the past weeks, it means nothing.

Sharena cries against your shoulder after you point out a mother and her son. Her innocence burns but you let her pour her heart out. Out of everyone, you appreciate her cheerfulness since mustering yours is a big lie.

From a corner, Alfonse watches over the reunions. But his gaze is painful, intimate, and you don’t pretend you understand his pain; however, you know of it. Zacharias is no longer in the Order yet he haunts the halls, the library, the whole castle, and his shadow follows those he left behind. The general consensus is to behave like he never existed. You’re careful in that regard when a war council begins, but the last events have planted a seed and you know Alfonse knows.

Hope is a weapon, as lethal as any other.

Despair is more consuming. You’re unsure if Alfonse can separate them.

 

* * *

 

You hold your breath.

No matter how many times you wander around the halls, it’s an impact. The architecture is magnificent, almost imposing, and the sight is too spectacular to use simple words. Stepping into the library is another reminder. You belong somewhere else. Every part of this dream will cease and disappear. Keep to yourself and stay this way. Your thoughts pile up, scrambling together, and you drown them into a void.

When you come back to your senses, your hand is trembling against a shelf.

The books are lovely, fitting for a museum, and your hands trace every cover with care. A part of you wants to tear off a page and shove it on your pocket, a testimonial of all you’ve seen.

You exist. You breathe. You are.

And still nothing leaves a mark you are here.

 

* * *

 

“Kiran.”

Your steps halt; the pause is enough to distract you from your way to the gardens.

“Got a moment?”

Nobody sees the faces you pull—you still lift your eyebrows.

Anna’s expression is serious, worthy of being the veteran, and you admire her perseverance. It doesn’t outright explain the sudden interruption, though you have a single clue. Spending some hours with the tactician from the world of Awakening has become fruitful.

“I understand your efforts, but I can’t approve of what you’re doing.”

You pause. “We haven’t lost another battle.”

“Alfonse joined this mission,“ Anna argues, not leaving room for negotiation. “Putting him in the sidelines will decrease his abilities. You can’t favor only Sharena and I.”

Your eyes wander. The movement is caught. Anna has the training to understand your body language as aloof, uncaring, and her face doesn’t harden but looks inquiring, trying to pick up your reasons. Being biased is part of the matter. Sharena has complained, too. You never told her to understand. Being in the same room as Alfonse tires you, keeping the strict line of tactician-soldier is the protocol, and his eyes show enough.

Whenever you see him, it’s never difficult to address him, but it’s never easy to push him from getting close. Working with Alfonse is misfortune. Bad results. You don’t synchronize, one distrusts and the other distrusts harder, and the battlefield is no place for that.

You were polite to keep him at arm’s length.

“Is that a suggestion...” you mutter, your voice soft and serene, “or an order, commander?”

Anna’s mouth falls into a thin line, her tone unwavering. “An order.”

 

* * *

 

“Kiran,” Alfonse begins.

You nod, humming as you pretend not hear the bewildered tone.

“Why am I sitting in a bench?”

_Worth it._

 

* * *

 

You comply.

It’s the least you can do. The logic is useless towards your need to stay away; acting like this makes you want to laugh. You stifle the need with a cough, Alfonse’s stare makes you self-conscious. Revaluating strategies is an interesting hobby, he proves to compensate for what you're lacking. Underneath your self-deprecation, you're a foreigner. It could be so easily to pretend being a phantom and dictate orders from far away. Maybe Alfonse’s wary for that reason, you pull away, and keep pulling away.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, in middle of the silence.

Instead, Alfonse keeps staring. “Nothing in particular. I’m... doubting Embla will let us rest longer.”

Your answer is blunt. “We’ll be prepared.”

“That’s what worries me,” Alfonse sighs, his shoulders tense. He appears less like the prince, and more a boy of his age, unsure of what he should do. “We’re already asking a lot of our tropes and this war has no end on sight.”

You look at him, really look at him, and your tongue rolls with less-bite. “You’re kind, Alfonse.”

His eyes land on you, wider than usual, only staring, instead of trying to see through you. The air vibrates with something unspoken, lighter. You try to find a middle ground—an anecdote, a joke, anything. The words the words fail you, all you see is Alfonse’s hidden fear. It resembles yours.

Maybe, loneliness is an acquired taste. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and then you go numb.

You turn around, hastily.

The spell breaks. Alfonse says nothing, only walks near and brushes his hand on your shoulder. He keeps silent, retreats, and opens a book. He goes back to reading but when you look again, his eyes are twinkling.

The air in your throat is stuck—along with your frantic heartbeat for what’s left of the afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Spending time in the hallway is fun. You enjoy how simple and refreshing it is to sit and greet anyone who walks nearby before they disappear into the castle. Sharena swings her legs, sitting next to you in the bench.

“Hey, Kiran?” She wriggles her fingers, playing with her hair. You smile, waiting for her to continue. “Do you like being here? With us, I mean.”

Your chest tightens. The war is a burden but her sincerity is surreal, warm. The smallest of gestures mean a lot.

“I think I’d have gone home already if I didn’t.”

Regardless of being stuck, or not, Zenith had become a synonym of home. It reminded you of how your world could be. Flawed, imperfect, yet beautiful.

“I know, I know. It’s just... You always look after us, and I appreciate it, really! My brother said we shouldn’t overwork you.”

You snort, good-naturedly. “A bit too late. Tell him it’s fine, I’m glad to help.”

Sharena laughs. Her eyes shine, relief in them. “Will do!”

The silence settles swiftly but you catch her hesitating. She looks at you with a plethora of emotions contained in a single glance.

“I got a question.”

“Shoot.”

Sharena peers at you. Her face is apologetic, vulnerable, but her smile betrays her worry.

“Are you in love with my brother?”

Time halts. Everything turns into stasis; it’s like a slow-motion movie, and you swear your heart stops. For a second too long, you reimagine Alfonse and his silhouette in the distance, out of reach, always giving that idea of loneliness, before turning around and facing you. The clear blue eyes, the brows lifted up and the lips changing the whole stoic expression into one of tenderness. You’ve seen the sight too many times, but your mind denies the idea of burning it.

You turn your eyes away. The lump on your throat gets worse.

Then, after an eternity, you nod.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, when Alfonse greets you, your lips hurt from faking a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m unsure if i’m satisfied with how this came out, i’m sorry for the grammar errors!
> 
> kiralfonse is lovely. it waters my crops and feeds me. they deserved more content. next chapter will come soon!


	2. liability

When you’re in love with your partner, the most logical thing to do is avoid them.

It’s impossible. No matter how hard you tell yourself to stop, just stop, your heart shudders. It’s a constant attempt to stop the need to scream, literally, but metaphorically works too. The flutter never stops, only gets more obvious, and if being self-conscious used to be a thing of the past, it has now increased tenfold. You don’t know how to act around Alfonse, everything he does takes your breath away. He offers small smiles, a swift pat on your shoulder, an embarrassed laugh.

He had always been charming.

Of course, you had known. You had pretended to never see it, and now the results were overwhelming.

 

* * *

 

Life in Askr is peculiar.

Nowadays, your tongue is less bite, and it’s more for humor. Not that your personality is five-star gold quality. Then again, Sharena will disagree; on principle, she’s a saint to put up with the ups-and-downs of the castle. If you had been fond of her before, it’s anything but an exaggeration, you’ll take a blow for her. Her smiles are dazzling. Unlike Anna’s devious glint, her eyes are sincere.

Really. No wonder the morally ambiguous find her—not your words, _entertaining_.

“Who’s a good bird?” Sharena asks.

The owl coos, half-asleep, relaxing under the head pats. You wait for her to walk away; since few people are in the hallway this early, it’s easier to pretend your business will be dealt quickly. Unfortunately, it’s kind of difficult to be honest and begin healthier ways to cope with your manners. You like to think your attempts of conversation are better than nothing.

It’s lively. Some chatter fills the whole place and it’s the right opportunity. You lean closer, a dramatic whisper for greeting.

“Who’s a good bird of prey?”

Feh wakes up, in an _It’s me!_ way, your mind supplies, and nuzzles against your hand.

 

* * *

 

Question: Why do you exist?  
Answer: To find an answer.

Question: Are you real? Even if you feel otherwise?  
Answer: Yes.

Question: Does it hurt?  
Answer: Always.

 

* * *

 

Zenith gets more dangerous. The war goes on.

You’re aware. Everything is clearer when you focus on strategies, than the questions on the back of your mind. If you’re dreaming. If you’ll wake up and be back in your room. If you’ll be safe, under the hardships, trying to survive what society puts in front of you. You find yourself thinking about life and death, and neither one particularly sounds appealing.

There’s the boy you’re in love with.

He puts up with your humor, your cynicism, your insecurities. People praise him as kind, but the same mouths call him cold and formal. He’s neither good nor evil, instead, he’s genuine and honest. If he’s broken, who has deemed you the one to pick up the shards? That’s arrogance. Neither of you knows if you or him are meant to be fixed.

His eyes still wander off, reaching for someone gone, his pain real. On lesser days, you find him aggravating. On fuller days, you reach out for him. Nothing of this is strange; he’s all in between and he’s everything at once.

Whenever you look at him—you think of home.

(It’s simple. You prefer being alone but you never prefer being lonely.)

 

* * *

 

fal·la·cy

noun  
a mistaken belief, especially one based on unsound argument.

1\. all the wars are fought by warriors, turned into massacres by monsters. it’s lesser known, little girls ache for destruction, too.

2\. her mouth spits poison and throws knives, instead of words. off-guarded, you think: she never smiles. but her somber eyes glare, her sadness fitting her uncannily, like skin.

3\. _it’s unfair_ , she screams. your ragged breath is distracted from exhaustion. you reconcile her loneliness and cruelty, innocence is less than a virtue, and somewhere, just out sight, the world goes on and nothing changes.

 

* * *

 

“Kiran, how many hours have you slept?”

The Tempest still remains. Neither of you brings it up; it’s a mutual agreement, when everyone at the castle falls asleep, that Alfonse comes to check up on you. If the circumstances were brighter, you’re sure, gossip would spark from this. It’s the perfect setting for a romance novel. You find yourself wishing for that, anything is better than diving into the chaos of Veronica’s army.

You turn around, too tired to pull up a half-lie. “I can’t remember.”

Alfonse hands you one of the scrolls, tea-stained and heavily marked. “I shall assume that means none.”

To distract yourself, you squint at the map. “I’ll sleep when she’s gone.”

“That report wasn’t here last night.” Alfonse points his finger and raises an eyebrow.

“Someone’s been helping us out.”

“Kiran.”

“I don’t know who they are. I’ll find out later.”

“ _Kiran_.”

You place the map down. Over the last days, Alfonse gently chastises you, questions and confronts your habits. It’s alright, it’s alright. Except placing yourself in his shoes is more complicated; the sight of his usually serious eyes being so concerned never fails to unsettle you. Strategies are simpler than this. You’re certain, any instincts of self-preservation are gone when he’s around. And darn it, you’re so good at fighting against everything, but happiness is fleeting, it hurts to reject it.

“Please, I’m worried for you.”

Your stomach flips.

Under the dim lights, Alfonse’s face is open, his blue eyes going through you. _Don’t push me away._

You half-nod, keeping your voice even. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Reality is neither white or black, it’s many shades of grey.

There is no such thing as perfect—no matter how people try to separate everything in between good and evil. People are complex, they fight and swing their fists, and they suffer, as well. Everyone is mortal, and regardless of what others think, everyone dies for themselves. Perhaps, it’s downright tragic. Except you find the real tragedy is how most people only want a happy life.

Even if it is not ordinary happiness, the thought remains.

Hardships will always be around the corner. The challenge is overcoming the thought of finding your own imperfections so ugly. They bleed from inside you, attempt to rot from your core. It’s hard, undeniably so. Some hide their bleeding better than others, but it’s a win when you can feel so deeply and not drown under the weight of it.

When you find it hurts to breath, you close your eyes and sleep.

It makes sense. You know very well—the familiar taste of blood, your skin that has bruised so much, and your cracking bones. Pain is a second nature to living.

Being human means that.

 

* * *

 

After that night, it gets harder than predicted.

 _I’m doomed_ , you want to say, but your mouth only whimpers. Alfonse puts his book down, blinking, and his confusion is endearing. Against any better judgement, you end up letting him continue his nightly visits. It’s an habit. A terrible one. When you roll over, the bed creaks suddenly, surprising you as blue eyes stare into yours.

“Any trouble falling asleep?” He whispers.

You move your eyes from his mouth. “Don’t blame me.”

It’s the beauty of simplicity: the way his chest rises and falls, mirroring how he carries himself under his armor. The simple action is common, but reassuring. You meet his eyes, a slightest burst of courage rushing through you, and your hand reaches for him. In your sleepy haze, you’re unsure if it’s the right choice or not.

A few seconds later, Alfonse meets you halfway, curling your fingers together.

He murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

In moments like these, it’s simple to forget.

Like his muscles forgot how to lift up, or his eyes how to twinkle with laughter. Even his steps are a reflection: cautious but intense, burning all out and striving to fulfill a responsibility larger than himself. He walks around formalities, attempting harshly to keep his distance. No one is harder to Alfonse than himself.

When you look up again, Alfonse is dozing. A small, genuine smile on his mouth.

You fall asleep, then, the warmth of your fingers, and Alfonse’s gentle snore your only constant.

 

* * *

 

You wear a face, that is anything but a face at all.

And you are made of flaws, stitched together with good intentions. You’re used at pushing people away, and you tell yourself that it’s better that way. But that’s the biggest lie, all you want is for someone to see through it all and hold you. Even if you feel unworthy, it’s the hope you cling to everyday.

People will hurt you, but you cannot—will not hurt people just because you can.

All you want is for someone to understand.

 

* * *

 

The day is dazzling with clear skies.

Morale and compromise are necessary in your daily life, it’s less practical if the troops are treated as tools. Even if you had remained reclusive, you would still want them to be treated as people. One day, if Embla attacks and you’re off-guard, it could come back and bite you. But nobody deserves to be a weapon.

You know, some will disagree and claim otherwise. It’s still worth fighting against their claims.

As you spread under a tree’s shadow, Anna shouts about training regimes and boosting sales and it gets lost in middle of Sharena’s attempts to sooth her. It’s common, but you still find yourself relaxing with the classical banter.

You’re awake and conscious enough to spot Alfonse sitting next to you. He smiles gently, greeting you with his eyes. Under the smell of flora, you find it almost believable that you’re the only two people in the world.

“Tell me a secret.”

Alfonse hums. “What kind of secret?”

“Any kind.”

“Alright, here’s one.” He seems to ponder for a second, his fingers brushing his chin. “You are taller than me.”

Any possibility for a serious conversation dissipates.

The air turns lighter, and you know, if someone else had heard those words leave from Alfonse’s mouth, they’d be unable to tell if he's joking or trying to lighten things up. You don’t contemplate about it too long. Instead, the disbelief spreads over your whole body. All these months, thinking he was a few inches taller—

“You’re joking.” It’s hard to stifle your giggles.

“No, really.” Alfonse’s face is keen. Almost comically so. “It’s the heels.”

He lets out soft exhale, his eyes tender. You stare back at him, trying to keep your laugh from bursting. It fails, when his mouth lifts up into a gentle smile, but you don’t care. It’s wonderful. He’s wonderful.

“Tell me another one.”

 

* * *

 

Sometime, when the atmosphere returns to strategy meetings, and people speak on the ambiguous line between hope and dread, you go back to square one. It’s like a script is in motion, but you don’t find any ill-will to prevent it.

The search ends like the original.

It doesn’t change things, unlike that encounter with Veronica. ( _I’ll pop your head right off... Just like I used to do with my dolls._ )

On the way back, Alfonse’s mood is somber, enough to pull Sharena into silence. The tightness around Anna’s eyes is brand-new, and you wish you could understood their pain. Instead, you bite down your tongue and let them grieve, a stranger in their midst.

 

* * *

 

A month later, Sharena picks up again her training.

It’s worth a small celebration. The Order cheers when she lets go of her silver lance. Even Anna gets teary-eyed, in middle of her speech, and you had understood why. She’s no longer the princess you met on the first day, but all the same, she keeps her optimism. That’s strength, no matter who tries to disagree.

You’re more familiar with the halls, you think, as you greet everyone.

The training grounds are empty—except for one single person. Behind the wall, you spot Sharena, and your greeting gets stuck on your throat. Under the sun, Fensalir irradiates an unearthly glow. If you knew less, you’re sure your attitude would be more professional.

Distracted. Low defenses. It’s too perfect.

Honestly, someone should stop you. Grinning, you poke her and her squeak is so worth it, even after the lance graces your robes.

“Wha— Sorry! I’m learning all over again." Sharena looks up to you, mortified. “I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”

A beat of silence.

“Er… Kiran?”

You snicker, your shoulders shaking before you start laughing from the absurdity. Sharena doesn’t reply, only widens her eyes, her mouth open in horror.

_“Did I break you?!”_

Cheerfully, you halt any self-deprecating humor as you tell Sharena again, it’s your fault for thinking she could be an easy target. Her response is an exasperated sigh, resembling her brother for half-second, and you do all you can to stop the dreamy sigh from your mouth. Crushes are terrible. It’s great.

A silence stretches out. Gently, you put a hand on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to say it’s nothing but—” Sharena’s eyes flicker to the side. “I wish this war was over. But I don’t want everyone to leave... is that selfish?”

Sharena lets out a shaky breath, but no tears fall from her eyes.

“No.” You whisper. “It’s complicated.”

“Y’know, Zacharias taught me.” Sharena avoids your gaze, looking at her lance, a half-hearted smile forming. “He... He said I was like a sister to him.”

“He would be proud of you.” You reach over, getting closer to hold her. “I know I am.”

Sharena lowers her head, hiding any reveal of any tears from her cheeks. Seeing it’s painful, the most you offer are words going from _We’re all proud of you_ to _It’s alright, let it out_ , and _We’re here for you_.

She clings to your robes, her muffled cries getting louder, more pained.

 

* * *

 

You say,  
_I want to be hold like I matter._

He says,  
_What do you mean?_

You say,  
_Like something solid, something fragile. But you don’t want to let go._

 

* * *

 

The first rays of sun peak on the sky, and you imagine a softer beginning and the fresh smell of paint.

Alfonse’s in the library, drowned in piles of books and cups of tea. You tell yourself to push away the uneasiness. Jealousy is worse than you imagined, but you still know that it’s better for him to worry for Bruno’s well-being. It doesn’t matter if you’re self-doubting, it matters little. It doesn’t matter since you’ll return to your world.

Zenith has been a daydream, and you learned to wake up.

That’s it. It doesn’t matter at all.

 

* * *

 

The boy you’re in love with is a mess.

Hair sticking up, and eye bags to rival, but he still has that mouth you want to kiss, even if you’re sure he’s been stuck in his research for hours, or how it’s against self-care to drink that much caffeine. You’re still into him.

You glance at the table, careful to light a new candle, it’s the least you can do for him. For a second, you consider dragging him to his bed but it’s less easier when the castle is asleep and you’ll be the first to admit you get lost at night.

The conversation is light. Alfonse tries hard to keep his yawns, but you tell him it’s better to let them out. You heard from the others, the ones that share your job, that there’s always time and place for etiquette. Alfonse looks like he’s debating whether or not to stop the sarcasm, but he ends up laughing.

“Duly noted. Then, what’s your suggestion?”

You close the book with a thud. “Drink coffee. Or a stronger tea.”

“I’d rather not. But if it’s from you, I’ll be more inclined to.”

Alfonse falls asleep on his chair, it’s a parallel of other nights, the roles reversed. He’s relaxed. A trick of the light, if you didn’t know any better.

You brush his hair with your fingers, realizing his eyes are no longer looking through you. It’s startling. In middle of your thoughts, you let your hand wander, careful to remain in the boundaries of what’s allowed within your relationship. For a quiet, impossible moment, you open your mouth and it’s a soft murmur.

“I think I love you.”

“—Kiran?”

You don’t hear the rest.

Instead, your whole body freezes. All you see is his eyes widen slowly, the weariness of sleep fading away and being replaced. You see it. His hand reaches out, gets closer and closer, and you lose it. The horror, the panic, the anxiety washes over. He knows, he knows, he knows. _Alfonse_ knows. The next you hear is a loud snap; after that, it’s worse than slow motion. Your legs wobble, tremble against the floor, stumble backwards.

You run. Nobody will be able to catch you—the halls are pitch black, you’re safe. But, you realize, your eyes are burning.

“Wait! Kiran!”

You don’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m alive! thanks for all the reviews, kudos and support!
> 
> it took a long while to get back here but i didn’t want it to abandon it, originally i was going to upload last year but it was a lot shorter. the release of book 2 helped me expand on some ideas and here we are. next chapter is the final one and then i can start more heroes content!


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